dr eames
by twowritehands
Summary: The forger can be anyone he wants, and always comes highly recommended. When a billionaire announces that he's breaking up his empire, the man's sanity is in question, and one of his many doctors isn't like the rest. Rated T for language. PLEASE REVIEW


_A/N: this is a Fischer/Eames story. The actors are both in their mid-thirties so their characters are probably supposed to be, too, but in this fic there is a ten-year gap in their ages. Just go with it. If you need canon to base it on: in the raining city dream, Eames said "that boy's relationship with his father is even worse than we imagined." THAT BOY, which sounds like he's a lot older. That's how I heard it, anyway. Now stop worrying about it and start reading. _**And REVIEW if you know what's good for you.**

**;)**

….

It wasn't the first time Eames played a doctor. It wasn't even the first time he played a psychiatrist. Hell, he'd spent most of 2003 in a mental institution in Russia treating the insane while attempting to extract secrets from the shredded mind of a patient who'd been in politics before his psychotic snap. Eames still had the white lab coat and all the credentials from that con. So basically he just walked right in.

Nurses grinned at him, eyes darting up and down his figure and he grinned back, greeted them warmly as if he knew them. In this manner, he owned every hallway he turned down until he'd found the proper room, where he found the proper information. Robert Maurice Fischer Jr.'s file was thin, his committed date recent, his room number nearby.

Eames headed that way, whistling and reading as he went. Most of it he already knew. Robert had been committed after a particularly violent outburst, attributed to his psychosis. He was diagnosed after it was confirmed he hadn't been himself since his father died, and seemed to be fixated on delusional ideas about his father, his godfather, the company, and himself.

The file went on to explain that Robert was violent towards anyone attempting to reason with him, and he admitted to insomnia since his father's death, brought on by vivid nightmares, which he refused to talk about. The supplied picture showed a Robert that was almost villainous in appearance; there were dark circles under his eyes, which were hard and glaring coldly at the camera, his mouth set in a straight line.

Eames' stride missed a beat looking at it; the man looked absolutely _hollow_. Green eyes traced the contours of Robert's face before landing on those ice cold eyes once more. He swallowed, flipped the folder closed just as he reached his destination.

Robert's room was a private suite (only the best for a Fischer, even an insane one). It was nothing at all what a suite was supposed to be, but it was significantly better than the rooms for other patients. Furnished a little more like a livable space and not a hospital room, it was still frightfully bare, being stripped of anything that could be used as a weapon in any way.

No one was home.

Eames disturbed the nurse at the desk outside the room, who was marking charts, to ask her the whereabouts of the patient. Her reply was that he was most likely in the common room with the others for daily activities. Eames nodded, "Fetch him for me, will you? Send him to my office." She nodded and hurried on her way. The moment she was out of sight, Eames reached down behind the counter to the desk and plucked up what was unmistakably the key to the suite.

He pocketed it, picked up his files, and continued on toward his office, whistling merrily.

… ... ...

The office door already had his name on it: Dr. Victor Reynolds. He opened it to find the nurse had done as she was asked and brought in the patient, who sat in one of the big chairs, his elbows on his knees, staring at the tip of a lit cigarette held in slim fingers.

Robert looked different in hospital clothes: a thermal shirt of white, the long sleeves of which he'd crammed up above his elbows. His sweat pants and slippers were a calming pastel green, the exact shade as the walls in the hallways, which had to make the poor man feel like a piece of furniture or something that belonged here. He looked up when Eames entered and his blue eyes narrowed.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Reynolds." He held out a hand, which Robert ignored completely.

"What happened to Holten?"

"You'll still meet with him," Eames reassured as he lowered himself into the chair behind the desk, "we're just adding me to your schedule."

"What for?"

Eames dropped one knee over the other, bounced his hanging foot, and studied his most recent mark from behind templed fingers. He allowed himself a grin. "I'm interested in your dreams."

Robert rolled his eyes, "They're just dreams."

"They are never just dreams," Eames replied smoothly, "Especially when you let them keep you from sleeping."

Robert didn't answer, took a long pull from the cigarette in his fingers instead. Eames leaned forward, reached for the smoke and made a motion as if prompting the younger man to share. Robert hesitated, frowned, then handed it over. Eames put it out instantly with a wicked grin, "Smoking is bad for you."

Scoffing, Robert reached into his pocket for a pack. He had a fresh one out and between his lips before he realized he didn't have a lighter. He looked to Eames expectantly and Eames only grinned back. Robert sagged, "You gotta be fucking kidding me," he breathed.

"I'm only looking out for your health, love."

"Thanks, but I look out for myself," he said, dropping the unlit cigarette back into the pack and pushing his hand through his hair. His forehead looked wider when his hair was back like that, and it was wrinkle free; he appeared to be a kid without a care in the world. But his eyes confirmed otherwise.

"And you did that swimmingly for twenty seven years but look where that got you," Eames lifted his hands to indicate the hospital, then landed a second wicked grin on the beautiful youth. "Why don't you let me take it from here?"

Robert stood, "Are you a lung doctor or a dream doctor?"

Eames had briefly been both in his time, actually, but out loud he only answered, "Dreams are where I do most of my work."

It dawned on the younger man and he looked around for the iconic silver case, found it on the table in the corner, as he asked, "You're a PASIV specialist aren't you?

"Yes," Eames answered steadily. "I'm from the Sydney Institute. They've asked me to come over and have a look at you. You're their primary priority, you know."

Robert had gone over to the case and opened it, examined the complicated gizmos inside. "How is shared dreaming going to help me?"

Eames straightened his spine, tugged at the lapels of his coat as he answered, "The PASIV sessions will allow you to show me your nightmares, even your memories."

"I'll bet when Holten couldn't find anything wrong with me in the cat scans, Peter hired you to find some sort of _evidence_ in my dreams that I'm not stable enough to run the company."

"No one is working for your godfather, darling," Eames said. "They told me that you've become paranoid about him and his intentions towards you. Is that true?"

"The bastard's trying to take what's mine. That doesn't make me paranoid." Robert shut the case, with gentle acknowledgement to the delicate technology inside, and continued to pace the room, "He blew a _minor_ public disagreement of ours _way_ out of proportion in order to claim I was insane so that he could take everything from me."

"What if he just loves you and wants what's for the best?"

Robert harrumphed, pressed on his eyes, "If someone loved me I'd know it."

Eames balked at the unwarranted confession, and in the long silence that followed (which was Eames forgetting to be a head doctor) Robert blinked rapidly and then shook his whole body, bouncing in place, like a boxer loosening up for a match, clearly warding off sleepiness. The motion was just violent enough to snap Eames out of it. He opened the folder on his desk and focused on the file, clicked a pen, reminders to work.

"When was the last time you slept?"

Robert waved a hand, could care less. He paced the office restlessly. Eames dared a glance up to find Robert with his back to him, studying the art on the walls like he gave a damn.

"Tell me about your nightmares," Eames urged. Robert groaned. "I need a cigarette!" he cried as if Eames hadn't spoken.

"You were never an avid smoker, darling," Eames responded before he could stop himself.

Robert twisted around, looked at him. "What makes you say that?"

"A lucky guess," Eames recovered.

"Well it's not lucky. It's wrong. I've been smoking since I was a kid. I hide it—have to for public relations. Good business is all about the image. Everyone hates a smoker these days."

Eames grinned, "For good reason."

Robert rolled his eyes like a teenager under a lecture from his father and Eames dropped it, leaned back until the chair creaked and put his feet up on the corner of the desk. "I'll give you a light if you give me a dream."

Thin shoulders sagged and Robert's eyes left the red socks that were showing at the ends of his Eames' trousers, found the loud matching shirt under the lab coat and then his scruffy face. "Blackmail?"

"I've stooped to lower levels for what I want," Eames said with a shrug. Robert narrowed his eyes, clearly unsure how to take that or even whether to believe it or not. He pulled the cigarette out with a dry, "Deal."

Eames retrieved a lighter from the desk drawer and struck it to life. Robert leaned in to sink the tip of the cigarette into the flame. Eames noticed the way the orangey glow illuminated his pale face and the way the tiny firelight danced in his eyes. As Robert breathed out a satisfying plume of smoke, Eames pocketed the lighter, "Your turn."

There was a long silence, filled with plumes sprouting from soft lips. Eames waited until it was obvious Robert was not going to speak. He prompted, "Tell me about the last nightmare you had."

"Wouldn't you rather just crawl into my head and see it for yourself?

"I will it if comes to that," Eames assured, "I'd rather hear you talk about it first. So talk. The last nightmare you had, please, Robert."

The patient sighed, pushed his hand through his hair again, "Sure, that one's easy."

Eames waited. Robert watched red light eat at the delicate paper in his fingers and said, "I'm falling through a hurricane. I have no idea where I am, it's some kind of city but it's going away and the wind hurts like it's filled with sand and I'm falling. Just falling. Then I wake up."

It wasn't what Eames had expected, but he knew that it was likely he was talking about his time in Limbo. Ariadne had mentioned that the kick they'd used was a leap from a skyscraper. He nodded, "Sounds common enough."

"Yeah, right," Robert harrumphed.

"No, it is. You have no idea how often people are falling in their dreams—"

"Not like this," Robert cut in firmly, glancing up from his cigarette. His intense blue eyes met Eames' green and then bounced back down to studying his fingers. Whatever indifference he'd had before was gone now; he looked unsure and vulnerable. Seeing he was working up to say more, Eames remained quiet.

"This feels real—more real even than life does sometimes. And, and it's like I know why I'm there even though I can't remember. And it's like I can feel—" He cut off abruptly, squeezed his eyes shut, scratched his hairline with the fingers of his smoking hand. He finished, "I can feel hands on my chest, cold and calloused and heavy."

Eames dropped his hands behind the desk, curled his fingers into fists over all of his callouses as Robert continued with his eyes locked on the floor,

"I'm falling and the invisible hands are touching the skin of my chest and I don't know who it is, but I want to know, and I feel like all I have to do is open my eyes and I will see who it is. But then I wake up, I'm alone in my bed and I realize it was all just a dream."

A long silence followed this. Eames cleared his throat, "What do you mean it feels more real than life does sometimes?"

"I knew you'd jump on that the minute I said it," Robert said and to Eames' surprise, he was smiling as he leaned back into the chair. He looked up at the ceiling pensively, contentedly, as he took a long draw, answered in a cloud of white smoke, "I don't know what I meant by it, really. I think it just feels… It feels _closer_ than real life, closer to me—as in, _physically_ closer. The whole world is happening out there, and I'm not connected to any of it, but this is happening in here and it has everything to do with me because it's a part of me."

Another silence grew fat in the office, then Eames drew a sudden breath, surfacing from things he should have known better than to sink into and flipped the file closed on his desk with a deliberate clear of his throat, but his voice was still slightly strained as he said, "Well, that's an excellent start, darling. I think that's enough for today."

Robert stood, fixed him with a cold look and asked, "Are you going to prescribe psychotics for me to take now?"

"No," Eames said.

"Good, I wouldn't have taken them anyway," he said, "because I'm not crazy. I'm just awake."

… ... ...

Eames had a copy of Robert's room key made, so the first thing he did was drop the stolen one on the floor behind the desk, half-hidden between the filing cabinet and the trashcan. All of the rooms were locked at night, and if it became necessary for Eames to pull Robert under without his knowledge, then being able to get in to him at night would be useful.

Having heard the dream about limbo, Eames was on edge. If Robert was remembering limbo then without a doubt he was remembering shallower levels. The question was, what parts of the inception job were returning to him at night and how much did they reveal?

… ... ...

The next morning, it didn't take long for Robert to find that arrangements had been made that meant none of the staff was allowed to lend a light to him. If he wanted a smoke, he'd have to track Dr. Reynolds down and tell him about a dream first. He stormed straight into the office without knocking.

Eames was in the middle of talking to another patient (he was legitimately practicing the medicine under his forged license) and she leapt to her feet at his intrusion. She was young, a suicide attempt. Robert ignored her completely, storming straight to Eames' side.

He wore the same clothes as before, only now over it all he wore a robe clearly from home, which was a deep almost black green with a crimson boarder, pure silk and hanging open with one pocket weighed by the spirals of a thick memo-pad and the tip of a pencil.

"You cannot take away my right to smoke!" he cried.

"True," Eames said, leaning back in his chair and clicking his pen, "but I _can_ prevent you from being within ten feet of dangerous objects, matches and lighters being right at the top of the list."

"You go to hell."

Eames reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the silver lighter. "Tell me another dream and you'll get your light."

Robert stared him down for several moments, his brilliant blue eyes unnervingly steady. Eames stared back and the girl with thick bandages all the way up her arms watched them. Robert looked away first and Eames laughed openly in his triumph.

Humbled, Robert pulled out his pack of cigarettes and Eames turned to the girl, "Julia, I'm so sorry, dearest, but I have to deal with this. You can work on the pictures we were talking about and we'll continue this later, hm?"

She nodded and, throwing a last glance at Robert from head to foot, blushed and left.

The lighter sparked to life and Robert drew the heat from it into the cigarette before heading towards the office window. "God, I hate it here," he said on the release of the smoke.

"You're treated far better than any other patient here, duck. Your money gives you a private room and gourmet food."

He snorted, "But I'm forced to wear pajamas, can't speak to anyone in the outside world, someone is always there to watch me shave, and I have to try to explain myself to people like you as if it's any of your business why I want to break up the empire. Now, I can't even get a nurse to light a fucking cigarette for me!"

"Did you sleep last night?"

"No." Robert turned and demanded, "Why have they stopped giving me sleeping pills?"

"You can't be on them and use a PASIV, the combination of extra sedatives and the dreaming compounds can be…" Eames' eye ticked as he remembered being trapped in Robert's head about to fall into Limbo at any moment, and he finished, "dangerous."

Robert looked across the office to the silver case in the corner. "Are we using the PASIV for today's session?"

"No, we're just talking for now," Eames answered, "But we've stopped your sleeping meds anyway just in case a situation arises where it's necessary to take you under."

"_Necessary_ shared-dreaming?" Robert asked. And Eames shrugged, reassured, "It's just protocol. When you work with the mentally unstable, you prepare for anything."

Robert snorted.

"Tell me about another dream," Eames prompted.

He sighed, "This is stupid. Everyone has dreams; it doesn't mean I'm crazy."

"I'm not trying to prove that you _are_ crazy."

"That makes you the only one," Robert said. "Uncle Peter would _love_ it if he got permanent control of the company."

"I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen," Eames said and it was the honest truth. It was in Saito's interest that Robert maintained control long enough to carry out his plans of dismantling the empire. It was also in everyone's best interest to make sure that the nightmares haunting the young man weren't revealing too much of what had happened en route from Sydney to LA.

Robert turned and leaned his weight on the glass of the window, crossed his ankles. At the sight of it, Eames killed a grin before it stretched his lips. In the soft comfortable clothes, Robert was significantly less intimidating than he was in Armani; in fact, he was adorable. The young man grinned, "Trying the technique where you convince me you're on my side so that I open up to you?"

"I figure it wouldn't hurt," Eames replied with a shrug. Robert barely smothered a grin and looked away. The sight of something akin to shyness from Robert sent a lone little butterfly looping through Eames' stomach. He sniffed and got them back on topic, "So, erm, tell me about another nightmare—anymore where you're falling?"

"Yeah," Robert's gaze was steady and driving into him. "I have another one where I'm falling down a mountain in an avalanche of snow."

Eames allowed a grin as he asked, "Any invisible hands in that one?"

"No, just certainty that I'm going to die," Robert replied still staring unblinkingly. Seriously, he must have won every staring contest he'd ever been in.

"Do you?" Eames asked.

"No, I wake up."

"Is that all there is to it?"

"No," and then without any prompting whatsoever, Robert elaborated. And he finally glanced away as he did so, "It's like I know I'm going to die but it wouldn't be a problem if I did. I'm _dying_, right? I should be worried about it, but I'm more worried about the snow that's getting down my shirt and in my pants because it's uncomfortable, wet and _freezing_ cold. I'm dying but I just wish I had gone to a beach or someplace warm."

Eames smiled, but Robert wasn't looking at him anymore. With his eyes on the floor, he'd found momentum and wasn't stopping, "and there's someone with me, but I don't know who he is, and there are others around but not close. I know they are trying to help me, and that they're _a part_ of me. We're there because we're looking for something, and we might not find it. If we don't find it, it'll be bad. In the dream I know what this thing is, but I can never remember it once I wake up."

This was far too close for comfort. Eames did what he was there to do and started downplaying everything, laying a false trail of logic for him to follow, leading him away from the conclusion that strangers had broken into his subconscious. "That doesn't sound too strange to me, darling. It's human nature to be searching for something."

"I'm not crazy," Robert said with a nod as if to reiterate it into simpler terms.

"Doesn't sound like it, does it?"

"Then let me go home."

"Can't, sorry," Eames shrugged, "You beat up your uncle and broke a crystal platter over the head of the body guard who pulled you off of him."

Robert laughed, "I was angry."

"Some would say insane with anger."

Cold blue eyes fixed on Eames, "He's a liar, attempting to make everyone believe I'm crazy."

"You've mentioned that once or twice already, I think."

"It sounds paranoid to you," Robert observed and jutted a chin at the file, "Hasn't Holten left a note about what Peter did to get them to lock me up in here?"

"No, he didn't."

"Peter is trying to prove that my father didn't love me," Robert said. "How fucked up is that? He has actually _forged_ journal entries in Dad's writing that say these _horrible_ _things_. He shoved them in my face and told me to stop being a girl and face up to the fact that Dad was disappointed that I couldn't be him and that if I was going to honor his memory at all, I should try harder to live up to his name."

"You're certain he wasn't?" Eames asked, "Disappointed, I mean?"

"Dad wanted me to be myself, that's what all of our fights were about. All of his challenges were his way of pushing me to act on my own, to do what _I_ wanted and make my own decisions. Yeah, he was disappointed, but only because I didn't see what he was doing until it was too late, but now I can see. He was trying to _help_ me. If I want to honor him and live up to his name, I have to be me in the same way that he was never anything but him. Don't you see?"

"This sounds very healthy, actually," Eames said, with a pat on his own back; he'd been afraid the inception had somehow grown sour.

"Exactly!" Robert cried, "But Uncle Peter is twisted. He's trying to prove that I'm delusional, that I snapped when Dad died and created this whole fantasy about how we were together."

"You said something about diaries?"

"Yeah," Robert grinned. "I got all the money and Peter got the diaries. You see, Maurice wrote in one every day for fifty years. He and Uncle Peter go about that far back, so he left all of them to him."

"Well, that's sweet, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but Uncle Peter doesn't see it that way. He's pissed that I got control of the company and all he got was second fiddle _again_ and a box full of books. That's why he burned them and made up the fakes."

Eames' stomach dropped, "Fakes?"

"Yeah, he showed them to me trying to make his point about my so called delusions," Robert rolled his eyes. "As if Dad would _actually_ write about how much he hates me for not being the son he expected to have. He loved me, dammit, and I don't need to prove that to anyone."

Eames thought he could puke. Clearly, the diaries weren't fakes. Clearly, it would be impossible for a man to forge twenty years' worth of diary entries about Robert, so clearly when the diaries contradicted the son, the son must be a little loony. It was easy for Eames to imagine how Robert could become violent towards anyone attempting to prove to him that his father despised him.

Robert approached the desk and splayed his hands on the wood, leaned his weight on them as he peered at Eames, "Don't you see how important it is that I get out of this place? I have to unmask Peter for the greedy asshole that he is and then live for no one but myself."

Something came back to Eames in that moment, a memory from the job. Sweet, innocent, Ariadne as they were crowded in a speeding van through a raining city, _So you're going to destroy the only positive relationship this guy has?_

_ No, we're going to repair his relationship with his father whilst revealing his godfather for what he truly is,_ Eames had replied. Oh how self-assured he'd been. Had he known about the goddamn diaries, he'd have picked a different strategy all together. How in the hell was he supposed to get Robert out of this place now?

… ... ...

That night, Eames made a call. Arthur answered on the first ring, "Yeah?"

"It's me," Eames said. "I've been talking to Fischer."

"And?"

"We're in the clear so far. But getting him outta here isn't going to be so easy."

"Why?" Arthur asked, adding lowly, "The idea hasn't consumed him, has it? Like it did with Mal—"

"No," Eames cut in. "The inception worked, better than we thought. He has all the right ideas and he's stable about it. Aside from the drastic, unexplained change in opinion, he's perfectly lucid. But there's a problem."

"How is any of that a problem?"

Eames explained about the journals and how Robert had made a scene declaring that Peter must have forged fakes. Arthur swore. "What do we do?"

"Use that pretty little head of yours, darling," Eames said. "We're _thieves_. Put a team together and go in and steal the journals, destroy them. After that, it'll be Fischer's word against Browning's. No one else has actually read them that I know of."

"On it," Arthur said.

"I knew I could count on you, love," Eames replied and killed the connection.

… ... ...

The next day, Robert arrived after lunch, a dream for a light. He studied Eames closely for several long moments before speaking, "You don't seem like a doctor."

"How's that?"

"Well, for one thing you haven't asked how anything makes me _feel_," Robert said and he was smiling. "That's all Holten cares about, how things make me _feel_."

"I don't really care how you feel," Eames said. "I just want to know why you can't sleep at night."

"I slept last night, for a few hours anyway, the longest in a while without meds."

"I know, the night nurse told me. That's excellent, darling, do you have any idea why?"

"Because of you," Robert admitted and that shy look was back but Eames only saw it briefly because the mentally-questionable billionaire turned to look out the window, "Talking to you. I haven't had anyone like you to talk to in... ever."

"Like me?"

"Accepting,"

"Ah,"

"Most people are judgmental," Robert said, "if they care at all."

"Most people are shit," Eames assured.

"Mainly they only care that I make their checks out properly. They're happy to see me in here if even for a moment they think they won't get paid. Everyone _wants_ me trapped in here."

"I don't want you trapped in here anymore than you do, trust me on that one, love."

"Why do you do that?" Robert turned from the window, "You call people by pet names. Do you even realize you're doing it?"

"Ah, yes," Eames rubbed the back of his neck. "It is a habit of mine—a bit cultural, I'm afraid. I apologize if it makes you uncomfortable—"

"No," Robert cut in and then he shrugged and looked back out the window with a little smile and color in his cheeks.

Eames' heart fluttered down into his stomach and back. He found his reflection in a decorative mirror across the room and gave himself a hard warning look that killed his blush. _Now is _so_ not the time to be you, Eamesy-boy, _his practical side said to his tender side. _You're here to keep your ass out of prison and don't forget it._

"So," he said abruptly with a clear of his throat, "you owe me a nightmare."

Robert put his cigarette out on the table nearest him, using a decorative crystal bowl. "Well, I have two left and I can't decide which one I want to tell you…"

"I'm open to hearing both, but that wasn't part of the deal. So, er, let's go with whichever is the easiest."

Robert was quiet for a long time. He pressed his fingertips to the cool glass and answered, "It's a memory. I'm at my father's deathbed. He's dying. He can't breathe, can't talk, but he pulls me close. He tells me I disappointed him by trying to be him, by never showing him who I really was. Then he's gone, and it's crashing down around me that I've been living a lie, breaking his heart by not attempting anything on my own, by not chasing my _own_ dreams and building my _own_ fortune as he did. Then I think that my mother would be ashamed of me. Then I wake up, and the worst part of it is, it wasn't just a dream. It _happened_. It's all _true_, it's all _still there_ crashing down around me and I _can_ fix it, but I can't fix it _fast enough_, and now I'm stuck in _here_ where I can't do a _goddamn thing_!"

The silence that followed was thick as if they'd both been buried in an avalanche much like out of Robert's dreams. Eames cleared his throat to break the spell and said, "That's a demon you'll conquer eventually, dearest, but step one is for us to get you declared sane."

Robert turned, "You really believe that I'm sane, don't you?"

"I know for a fact your feelings about how your father felt didn't come out of nowhere."

"Thanks," Robert said. The billionaire held out a hand for a shake. His hand was soft, small in Eames' paw but strong, his slender fingers had a grip that was impressively firm. Eames tried his best to surreptitiously shake out the tingles the touch had left in his fingers as Robert lingered for just a moment, with a genuine smile that Eames couldn't help but to return, and then he turned and left the office.

… ... ...

Robert walked in on time, calmly, and sat in the chair, no cigarette in hand and an amiable smile stretching pink lips.

"Good morning," Eames said, trying not to fidget nervously under that blue gaze. "Did we sleep?"

"Not at all,"

"Sorry to hear that."

Though he'd just sat, Robert stood, went to the window and looked out on a clear day. "Do we have to stay in this office?"

"Would you prefer a walk around the grounds?"

Robert nodded.

Outside, their strides matched as they ambled down a white sidewalk that cut through neatly trimmed grass. Robert broke the silence between them, "What's the explanation for it all?"

"For what?"

"For my sudden nightmares, they're so much more vivid than I've ever dreamed before. They're overwhelming."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Eames said, and instead of explaining the initial side effects of the shared-dreaming compounds, he said, "You've lost your father, taken on significant responsibility. It could just be your system's way of coping with the stress."

"I'm not crazy," he said with a nod.

"No," Eames said.

"So what's the plan?" Robert asked.

"For what?"

"For getting me out!" Robert laughed, "You know that I'm _sane_, I don't belong here! Uncle Peter is a liar who shouldn't be running the company and I have to expose him—"

"Okay, wait just a moment, darling," Eames stopped and held up his hands to slow Robert down. "I haven't forgotten that you mentioned _two_ dreams yesterday. I would like to hear about this other one." Robert sighed, but with a smile, and Eames continued with a grin, "I'm extremely curious what could be worse than reliving your father's death over and over again."

"I didn't say the dream about my dad wasn't the worst of the two. I just said it was the easier one to explain."

"So tell me about that hard one."

"You just said that the dreams are no big deal—just a way to deal with the stress."

Eames pulled out the lighter and lit it up, shielding the flame from the wind with his hand and holding it out. "That doesn't mean the dreams aren't important. Come on, I'll hold up my end of the deal if you do."

Robert waved the lighter away, "It's okay, I want to tell you. We'll just say you owe me one."

"Okay," Eames said with a flutter in his stomach. He dropped the lighter into his pocket and they strolled passed rose bushes and quaint little stone benches and fountains while Robert silently contemplated where to begin. The backs of their hands brushed once and Eames opened the space between them so that it wouldn't happen again.

"It starts and I'm in this room. I can hear gunfire and screaming outside the walls. I know I'm exactly where I am supposed to be. But then suddenly someone else is there. I whirl around, she shoots me. I feel the bullet slam into my collarbone and through my shoulder blade on the way out. I actually hear it hit the metal wall behind me. I hit the ground and then I'm bleeding out all over the floor.

"I realize I'm in a hospital, but no one can save me. I'm all alone. I'm dying and no one cares and it hurts the way the blood is leaving in this never ending drain… I'm afraid, _terrified_, because I don't know what will happen next. The fear makes my heart race, makes the blood come faster. I'm dying faster but it's still taking forever. I'm so scared I just want it over with. Because I know no one is going to save me, I just want to die…"

Eames had been watching his feet while he listened. He lifted his gaze when he realized Robert was looking at him. The handsome young man raised his eyebrows, smiling humorously, "And then it gets really scary."

So far nothing about it seemed funny, but the fact that Robert was smiling was enough for Eames to laugh as he asked, "Oh, yeah? How so?"

"I die," he said. "I _actually die_ and it doesn't wake me up. You know, normally, you wake up _before_ you die in a dream? But I don't. My heart stops beating because I tell it to and…" he shrugged. "I cease to exist. There's nothingness. It's suffocating. It lasts and lasts…"

"Jesus,"

"Then I'm struck by lightning. Someone has saved me, but I wake up before I can see who it is. I wake up and see that I'm alive. I'm happy to be alive. I'm relieved it was just a dream. It always takes a minute to get my breath back and to stop the shaking and then I realize it." Robert stopped walking and faced Eames. He waited for the pseudo-doctor to ask,

"Well what?"

"I want to have the dream again," He answered matter-of-factly. Suddenly unsure, he turned and stepped over to the towering hedge, where he showed more interest in the wall of leaves than they deserved. Eames pinched his nose, swallowed questions because he could tell Robert wasn't finished.

Plucking a few little leaves off and sprinkling them down to the sidewalk, he continued, "At the same time, I never want to feel that fear and pain again, but I still want to have the dream one more time. Only because I feel like I can _make myself stay asleep_ long enough to see who saves me. I just want to see who it is, who cares."

Robert was standing with his back to Eames. His thin shoulders were sagging forward as he pressed a thumb and forefinger into his eyes. His breathing was tight, his shoulders tense.

Eames stepped closer without thinking, "Lots of people care about you, Robert, surely," he said, much softer than he intended. Robert whirled and hardly any space was between them at all, his bright blue eyes landed dead center in Eames' green and didn't move. His gaze was so steady it would be frightening if his eyes were hard, but they weren't. They were filled with soft questions and longing.

Eames kissed him, a fist full of hospital shirt and his other hand at the back of his neck. They wouldn't be seen, the path was hidden in hedge here where it curved, not that he cared. He didn't care. Let them see. He just _wanted_. Robert's lips were as soft as they looked, responding to the kiss with fervor. Slender fingers splayed on Eames' wide chest and—impossibly—were pushing him away.

"Wait, wait," Robert panted, the victim of stolen breath. He jumped a perfectly arched eyebrow and it was so playful Eames could die. "I don't think you're allowed to do that, Doctor." Eames wagged his eyebrows, threaded all ten fingers into the soft hair at the back of Robert's neck. _Maybe I can tell him_, he thought as he watched Robert's face smooth out in satisfaction from his touch, _that I'm not a real doctor and we can do anything we want._

A moment later, he decided not to, because telling him one thing would lead to another until he knew too much. Instead, he just kissed him again, short and sweet and let him go. He cleared his throat, "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, I'm not." Robert said.

Eames laughed, turned around with as much deliberate force as he could and headed back toward people. Robert fell into step with him, the backs of their hands brushing once, twice, and then no more as they both made a point to leave space between them.

"So I've told you all of my dreams," Robert said and if he was trying to keep a low playful tone out of his voice he failed miserably. "What now?"

Eames tugged on the lapels of his coat, cleared his throat, looked straight ahead to avoid the trap of bright blue eyes. "Well, I'm meeting with Holten and your other doctors tomorrow to discuss your case in order to decide if PASIV sessions are necessary. It's invasive so we try to avoid it if we can. I'll let them know my opinion of you."

"Probably not your _whole_ opinion," Robert chortled, then in a surprisingly spot-on British accent, "_Alright, boys, well I believe he's sane and a bloody amazing kisser, so let's just let him go_."

Eames laughed one loud bark before restraining himself and hushing his patient with low whispered warnings that people might overhear so he ought to shut up about it. Then he added, "Not humble, though, are we?"

Robert shrugged a shoulder, waved a hand. "I was actually just talking about you."

Eames cleared his throat to kill a giggle and was never so interested in the shape of the building they were heading towards. He knew, _knew_, it was stupid, but he also knew he'd never felt so good. Inside the climate-controlled hallways that matched Robert's pants, they'd already silently agreed to go their separate ways for the day.

"Thank you," Robert said sincerely before they parted, adding, "I like having someone on my side."

All Eames could do was nod and then Robert was gone around a corner.

… ... ...

Eames was far too restless for paperwork. The sun was long set and he had yet to return for the night to the apartment he'd taken in the surrounding city. He had to get things prepared for tomorrow's meeting, but his mind kept cutting new paths through the thicket of his mind, paths that always circled back to Robert in a way completely unproductive to the cause, to that kiss.

Robert pulled long sighs out of Eames like a string pulled from the depths of a drain. It'd been a long time since a single kiss had thrilled him—_ached_ _him_—as much as Robert's had. He wanted to do it again. He wanted to fold Robert's slender frame in his arms and feel the younger man's eager responses against him. He wanted to use that spare key he'd made to Robert's room…

But he couldn't do that, so Eames was walking.

His office was far too quiet and secluded and haunted by the very thing that was possessing Eames so he left it, escaped into the cooling night air for a stroll. It was night, lamps lit garden paths, and the only sounds were the moths around the lights and the gravel beneath his feet. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

Arthur answered on the first ring and Eames spoke before the point man could,

"Well?"

"We have a plan in place," Arthur answered.

"If you have a plan then why haven't you done it yet?" His voice was sharp in the night.

"Whoa, calm down."

"Sorry," Eames covered his eyes. "I just—the faster this is dealt with the better."

"Is everything alright?"

For a half moment Eames considered lying, then threw it all to the wind and told the truth, "Do you remember when you were doing the research and you told me he seemed like he was my type?"

"Yeah," Arthur answered slowly and Eames could just see dark eyebrows lower over darker eyes.

"You meant it as a dig, but you were right," Eames said then added, "You have _no idea_ how right you were."

Arthur expelled a breath and said firmly, "Okay, I get it. Please tell me you haven't done anything stupid."

"Define stupid, darling,"

"Christ, if you've been fucking him in broom closets—" Arthur began but Eames cut in,

"No, I do have _some_ control, thank you." He wished he didn't, because it sucked, but he did. No matter how good it'd be to lose time and breath and fluids, alone in a secret place with Robert, he didn't survive this long on the wrong side of the law by being reckless. Well, by being _that_ reckless, anyway.

"Good, just hold tight for a little longer," Arthur said, "The diaries will be gone this time tomorrow. How is it going on your end? Can you prove he's sane?"

"Yes, because he is."

"Good, then he should be back to breaking up Fischer-Morrow by Monday."

Eames drew in a steadying breath, nodded and said, "Right, then. Thanks, love. Call me when it's done."

Arthur made a sound in the affirmative and killed the connection.

Eames pocketed his phone and continued down the path, stretching his shoulders as he went and attempting to cling to Arthur's reassurances. Several minutes later, he came around a bend and stopped walking. He was facing a patio, and not just any, but the one adjacent to Robert Maurice Fischer Jr.'s private suite.

Secretly, he'd known where he was headed. He'd chosen to pretend he hadn't, however, in order to avoid doing the smart thing and now here he was. Just a quick look and he'd go.

From his distance, he could see that the French doors were opened, spilling yellow light across the stone of the patio, and that sitting in a deckchair, was Robert. Eames was moving forward before he knew it. He approached silently.

The ground slopped here, so the thick stone balustrades of the patio were actually above Eames' head, running below them a row of tidy shrubbery growing up against the stone foundations of the patio. Eames could see through the marble pillars of the railing and across the bare patio to the pampered patient. Just the sight of him stopped Eames' breath.

Robert was relaxing in the deck chair, looking up at the sky, but even as Eames watched, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, captured one between his lips and then—pulled out a silver-cased lighter and struck it to life. Balking, Eames checked his coat pockets to find them lacking one lighter. He understood instantly, and saw it all in his head vividly: Mashed together, Eames had taken a second sweeter kiss and Robert dipped long fingers into the lab coat pocket and lifted out the lighter.

It was too sly, too _sexy_, he had to say something on principle. "You know," he began and paused to relish in Robert's surprise. The man gave a start, took a moment to locate the source of the voice. Once his blue eyes fixed on the dark shape of the intruder through the gap in the balustrades, Eames continued, "I could make them keep you here another six months for stealing that lighter, darling."

Robert stood, crossed to the railing where he leaned on his elbows and looked down over it to Eames with a cocky smile. "You won't, though. You know only crazy people belong here."

"It was a damn good lift," Eames complimented, with a motion to the lighter in Robert's fingers. "Had you been the one to kiss me, I'd be feeling used right now."

"But _you_ kissed _me_—both times," Robert said and he bent at his knees as he said it, sinking to his haunches. The balustrades were spaced far enough apart that his head fit through but not his shoulders; he hung his head between the polished stone grinning impishly, "Are you back to do it again?"

Robert's new position put his lips close—Eames was well aware that all he had to do was take a step forward and crane his neck. He kept his ground, to his credit, but he couldn't help it and asked, "Would you like me to?"

"Yes," was the answer and it was somehow a command. Robert took a last drag on his cigarette and tossed it to the gravel in front of the doctor. Eames had control, but it was unraveling the longer he looked into blue eyes darkened by the night around them. Under the pretense of stepping on the dot of orange light at his feet, he moved closer.

But still not close enough.

He had to clear his throat before he could speak, and he pushed his fists into his pockets as he said, "I didn't know you'd be out here. I just wanted to see if you had any lights on—to know if you were sleeping or not."

"You could have asked the night nurse at the desk right outside my door."

Eames straightened his spine like he was given a brilliant idea, "Oh, okay. I'll just do that, then." He turned to go, but a pale hand shot out and grabbed him by the tie. Robert had maneuvered one shoulder into the space in the railing so that he could reach through, and his grip on Eames' tie would strangle him if he took another step away.

"Come here," he ordered seconds before he'd pulled him by the tie a step closer, close enough to crush his mouth over Eames'. It was a hard kiss, as firm and demanding as his handshake. Robert had a vice grip on Eames' tie and so he couldn't step away even if he wanted to.

He _didn't_ want to. This was unlike any kiss Eames had ever experienced. Their lips collided, tongues met, noses bumped but absolutely _no other_ part of them touched and he was craning up for more, going higher in order to go deeper as if he were attempting to take the breath of an angel.

His hands were still in his pockets. He'd never kissed anyone and kept his hands in his pockets before. He wanted to touch Robert, to feel his face and his hair, his neck and his chest but this sensation of being kissed, _and_ _only kissed_, was too new and thrilling and so he did not move a muscle expect for those needed to return Robert's affections.

Robert broke for air and their mouths separated with a smack, but the tension on Eames' tie remained the same. There was a long moment when nothing happened but mingled breath between them. Then Robert spoke, a low whisper, "Come up,"

Eames' first answer was to close a hand gently around Robert's wrist. Thick callused fingers caressed the tender skin under them as he answered, "You know I can't, darling."

"Yes you can," Robert replied, somewhere between a command and a plea.

"No," Eames said resolutely. Robert's grip on his tie loosened and he said, "Fine, I'm coming down." He made to pull his head and arm back through the railing, but Eames still had a grip on his wrist and he clamped his other hand over Robert's where he clutched the bulbous marble pillar by his head.

Eames gave the free arm a tug, straightening it out toward the ground, forcing Robert to tilt forward as far into the railing as he could squeeze. Now he was the one that was trapped. His lips were in kissing range as Eames said, "I'm going home. You're going to bed to dream sweet dreams of me."

He let go of Robert, but the man didn't move away. Grinning, Eames reached up above their heads and found the lighter left on the railing. He held it up between them, "This is mine," he said. With a sheepish smile, Robert reached for it but Eames stepped away, out of reach.

Robert pulled out of the railing and stood, leaning over it, "You still owe me one."

Eames turned and began walking away, tossed over his shoulder, "Find me tomorrow and you'll get it." He could not believe he was walking away. The night stretched on before them, hours and hours that they could spend doing all manner of things, and yet he was leaving, separating them.

Three unbelievable steps later, Robert called, "Goodnight, then."

Eames turned with a laugh and called back, "Goodnight, darling."

… ... ...

Maybe Robert was sleeping. Eames hoped he was; that would make one of them. The ceiling of his new apartment was unfamiliar, but Eames hardly noticed because unfamiliar was too familiar too him. The rogue spent so much time on crime sprees around the world that very few things were familiar to him. He wasn't aware of it yet, but he craved something familiar and constant to rely on.

He was already thinking in that direction though, as he surrendered and let himself imagine fitting himself against Robert. Too much recent work in dream crime meant he couldn't dream anymore, so it would be nice to have company as he slept. For that company to be Robert would be—wonderful.

A long sigh slithered out of Eames and his chest swelled and he rolled and flopped uselessly in his sheets, attempting to find comfort in the lonely bed. Memories haunted Eames, memories of shy smiles on Robert's pink lips, of Robert's hard grip on his necktie, of blue eyes pleading and commanding at once that he stay for the night.

_Come up_, he'd whispered.

He should have. Christ, he really should have. He should have said to hell with the consequences, you only live once. Part of him was outraged, homicidal, over the decision to decline the offer, to come home to this boring, lonely place instead.

Another part of him maintained that this torture was for the better; not only would it have been detrimental to the job, but Robert was attracted to a psychiatrist named Victor Reynolds who held an impressive position in the most prestigious dreaming center in the world, not a conman named Eames who didn't finish high school and gambled away the money from his last con in the space of one week.

Thinking of this wasn't anywhere near as fun as thinking of the rest of it, so Eames pushed the thoughts away and focused on sweeter things. If he didn't, he'd never be able to sleep. Better to let himself fall into a cradle of satisfying moments, let the memory of Robert lull him to sleep.

_Come up_, half a command, half a plea. Eames sighed again, smiling and disappearing entirely into the memory. It felt so, _so_ good to want and be wanted. Letting himself pretend the offer was for him and not his mask, he eventually drifted off to sleep.

… ... ...

Holten was old and crispy around the edges, but good at his job. Eames decided he liked him as the old man shined spindly specs on his coat lapel and continued with his report, "Robert is coherent and logical, ashamed of the violent outburst wherein he injured his godfather, and he has recently admitted to the unlikeliness of the diaries being forged. He has made significant progress."

"What about his insomnia and nightmares?"

Everyone turned to Eames, "Well, they seem to be nothing more than typical stress-induced imaginings. Things like falling and being lost and alone. His worst is a reliving of his father's death, which is to be expected considering the man's hurtful last words."

"You do not suggest further sessions employing a PASIV?"

"Not at all. He opened up about his dreams, explained them to me in satisfying detail. It's my opinion that to pull him under would be a waste of time and energy because, frankly, I believe he is nothing but a man with anger management issues who was put in a stressful situation and reacted badly. He's sane."

The diplomas, achievements and references that Eames had forged for a fake name packed an impressive punch, and his opinion weighed a lot in the final balance.

"Alright, then," they agreed, "he'll be happy to hear he can go home."

… ... ...

His phone rang in the middle of a session. Without pausing in his counseling for the manic depressive in Robert's chair, he saw that it was Arthur and hit ignore with an apologetic smile at the patient. At the end of the meeting, he checked his voicemail.

_It's me_, Arthur's calm voice said. _It's done_.

Eames looked at the clock. Problem solved with time to spare—that was what it was like working with true cons. Dominic Cobb had had too much to live for, made the stakes too high, the dangers too real. Eames had never realized before how much he took for granted in his daily work. No bullets, no threats, just lies and power. Having no attachments made for more fun.

He swallowed tightly at the thought of the fun that sticking to that rule had cost him last night.

Just before Robert's check out time, a nurse stuck her head in the door, explained that the staff was arranging a going-away thing for the richest patient. Eames smiled tightly and drummed his fingers on the desk. It was better to leave it all there on the patio. He didn't want to see Robert again in front of anyone.

He volunteered to look after the patients for the other doctors instead.

… ... ...

The office was filled with sunlight and the sounds of laughter, a baritone from the man behind the desk, a light melodic giggle from the chair where the girl with bandages on her arms was getting to her feet. "Thanks, Dr. Reynolds. I'll miss you."

"You're welcome, sweetheart." Eames winked, "And you won't miss me for long. Soon you'll be back out there living your life and having a blast."

She went to the door and pulled it open, "I know; I can't wait!" she nearly collided with someone on her way out, apologized and hurried on her way. The figure that'd slid out of her way just in time was Robert, and he let himself into the office. He was wearing trousers, shined shoes, a crisp white dress shirt, no tie, and a smile.

Eames stood with the nervous haste of the caught-of-guard. "Look who's still here," he said and he checked his watch, "They signed you out an hour ago."

"I couldn't go without one last smoke," Robert said. He'd shut the door behind him. Eames was glad he had, but wished he hadn't at the same time. They were as alone as they had been where the path curved, or where the light of his patio met the darkness. "I couldn't believe you weren't there when they told me I could go."

"Well," Eames made himself busy by striking the lighter so that Robert could light his cigarette. "I had patients to work with, so…"

Robert nodded as he drew the smoke into his lungs and exhaled, "I get it." He turned, pushed the thumb of his smoking hand into his eye, then cast a glancing smile at Eames before he headed for the window, "I want to thank you, for not staying with me last night. I was being reckless."

"No, I was being unprofessional even being there," Eames began but Robert cut him off, turning to look at him.

"I'm glad nothing more happened," he said, "Because now that I'm out, I'm headed back home to LA, which I guess means I won't be seeing you again." He swallowed and turned back to the window, putting the cigarette to his lips, confessed in a puff of white smoke, "And I think it would have only made it—difficult—for me to leave, had I been with you."

Eames blinked rapidly, perhaps to make up for the heartbeats that had stopped following each other and had instead just kind of exploded in every direction. He cleared his throat, "Well, I wish I could say I was thinking of that when I walked away, but to be honest, I was only thinking of myself."

Robert chuckled, turned, caught the cigarette between his knuckles and left the window, headed for the desk with his free hand outstretched. "This is goodbye, then."

"Maybe we'll meet again—in happier circumstances," Eames said as he took the hand.

"Sure, maybe," Robert said with a laugh and then he let go. At the door, he paused to give him one last smile, and then he was gone.

… ... ...

It wasn't the first time Eames had worked low on the corporate totem pole. It wasn't even the first time he worked for Fischer-Morrow. In fact, he was still on the payroll from that con, so all he had to do was ask for a transfer to the LA offices. It was a little reckless, but Robert was all that Eames wanted and if he was going to have him, he had to reveal the presence of his masks and let the chips fall where they may.

A phone was ringing, ignored. Suits and heels hurried around in frenzy. Eames stepped out of the elevator into the chaos of a disintegrating conglomerate headquarters. He'd shaved that morning, picked out his most boring shirt and the newest suit he had. Thick black framed glasses replaced his contacts.

"Who are you?" a rather tense looking secretary asked him when he'd reached the end of the hall and the door to Mr. Fischer's office.

"Walker, with the Sydney reports for Mr. Fischer," he said in an Australian accent.

"Oh, thank GOD!" she cried and hit a button on the intercom on her desk. "Mr. Fischer, they're here."

"_What_?" Robert's tense voice snapped in the speakers of the electronic box.

"The Sydney reports," she said through her teeth, "they're here. You've only been tearing my head off for them for the past—"

"_Oh, yes, yes, send them in, then, what's the matter with you_?"

With her pretty nostrils flaring and her eyes flashing, she jerked her head toward the office door. "Tread lightly, Walker. In and out if you know what's good for you."

Smirking, he gave her a salute and let himself into the office. It was a vast office, all dark wood, leather, money. Robert was alone, but he was on the phone, pacing in front of a giant window with a spectacular view of the LA skyline. Eames waited silently as Robert delivered a very real ultimatum to whomever he had on the phone, and then slammed it down.

He reached for the files Eames had brought him without even looking up, mumbled, "I swear the hassle of selling off the pieces of this company is almost not worth it. I'm this close to just walking away and letting it crumble into a worthless _heap_!"

His blue eyes swept over figures and charts on the printouts and he took the pen Eames offered, signed in a flourish of his left hand. Eames stood there, smirking and silent, waiting to be recognized. Robert went through more of the papers he'd brought him, and Eames studied his once mark, once patient, last kiss, latest daydream.

In the three weeks since he'd last seen him, Eames found Robert looking significantly healthier. He had color in his shapely cheeks from the intense exertion of destroying his inheritance, and bossing around hundreds of people as he did it. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and his soft lips pursing around a cigarette. Of course. Eames sighed and broke his promise to himself to wait silently until recognized,

"Mind putting out the cigarette, love? I never cared for people giving themselves lung cancer."

Robert's head jerked up, his eyes went as wide as they'd go. Eames caught the cigarette before it fell out of his parted lips, crossed the room to the desk to put it out in an ashtray there. Robert tracked him through the room, blinked, looked around, then back at Eames where he looked him head to toe.

"_What are you doing here_?" he asked, unable to kill a smile even though his eyebrows were kissing over his nose and his eyes darted around in uncertainty.

Eames smiled, continued in the same Australian accent he'd used outside the door, "I'm delivering the Sydney reports to you, Mr. Fischer."

Robert balked at the accent, took a step back and Eames chuckled, continued in his new voice, "I told you we'd see each other again under happier circumstances."

Robert frowned, "Yeah, you did, but you sounded different, then. You looked different, too."

Eames allowed his real voice to come back and spoke softly, "It was still me, dearest."

Robert flushed, looked away briefly before blue eyes snapped back like a trap, "How many voices do you have?"

"More than you can dream of," Eames answered with his hands in his pockets as he stepped closer, a single step, "I make a decent living on them."

"You pick something you want to do and just walk right in and do it, don't you?" he sounded disapproving, but awestruck at the same time and it gave Eames hope. Maybe, just _maybe_, Robert would accept him.

"I come highly recommended wherever I go."

"Well, of course," Robert said with that playful jump in his eyebrow and a step forward and Eames knew that he got it, understood forgery, conmen, the nature of the job and the risk he was taking to be here. Here for him. Just to see him.

Robert was smiling brightly, closing the distance between them with aching patience. "My father's enemies hired you to get me out of that hospital, didn't they?"

"Nothing gets by you, does it?" Eames purred and he had to tighten his fists in his pockets to keep from reaching out and snatching Robert up into a kiss three weeks overdue. He was in arm's reach and closing.

"What's your name?"

"Nicholas Walker," he answered Australian-style, "it's an honor to work for you, Mr. Fischer."

Robert was toe-to-toe with him, his blue eyes steadily piercing through Eames. When he spoke, he leaned so that his breath washed over freshly shaven chin but his lips didn't touch anything as he whispered, "What's your real name, Mr. Walker?"

Eames liked it so much his stomach ached deep, deep, _deep_ down and he couldn't stand it anymore. He captured Robert's lips, parted them with his tongue and Robert let him in. He held Robert's strong jaw in his hands, thumbs grazing over the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

Slender fingers curved around his sides, slid up to his ribs, around to his chest pulling an involuntary guttural noise out of Eames, it felt _so good_. Robert moved forward and Eames fell back a step, allowing him to gain whatever ground he wanted, absolutely anything Robert wanted he could have.

All at once, Eames was sandwiched between the wall and the billionaire. He could feel Robert's heart beating against his chest, their stomachs swelling together with every breath. He relinquished his hold on Robert's face, letting his hands slide around to the back of his neck, and then down the gentle, wonderful curve of his spine to the small of his back where he kneaded him urgently.

Robert broke the kiss, pulling away only so much to make room for words. "I knew from the first day we talked that I would never be able to escape you." His lips grazed Eames' with each word. He pulled away enough to meet Eames' eyes, blunt nails lightly scratching along a smooth jaw, he continued softly, "but I don't know anything about you—so tell me your real name."

"Eames," he answered happily, as the fingers traced his chin, and then down to the knot of his tie, which he tugged to loosen. "And I'll tell you anything else you want to know."

"Don't," the breath over Eames' lips said. "Don't tell me everything, I prefer the mystery."

"I'll hold you to that."

Robert purred and kissed him. Eames parted his teeth, let him in, and lost his breath for it.

It wasn't the first time Eames fell in love. It wasn't even the first time he fell in love with a younger man. But it was the last.

... ... ...

**This is the first slash pairing I've ever written so PLEASE REVIEW!**


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